The sense of fear, dread, terror — of taking my life into my own grill mitts — is gone. No longer do I consider wearing silver, asbestos-lined fire suits or welders’ goggles. No longer do I kiss my wife and child before marching out to the backyard with a plate of frozen burgers: “If I never see either of you again, remember I love you. Write epic poems about me. Tell the world I went down in a blaze of glory … literally.”
My old grill — that flaming death trap — is gone, and to honest with you, I kind of miss it.
It was my first “real” grill. One that didn’t need charcoal and a blast mask. Nothing like the eruption of lighter fluid on those old-style briquette grills. A mushroom cloud of roaring flame that could be seen three blocks over. Children would dive for cover. Men would take off their hats, bow their heads and somberly say, “A man just died grilling a burger. Amen!”
Three weeks later my eyebrows would grow back in, and I would start to see things without a big, blurry white spot.
My big-kid grill changed all of that. It took me into the modern-day world of grilling with gas, and for years served up all kinds of culinary masterpieces and disasters. We became close friends, although I regret now that I never named him. Maybe “Grillasaurus” or “Char baby.”
But over time my grill had grown erratic, rusty and even dangerous. The automatic lighter had ceased working, meaning I had to reach a nervous, shaking hand close to the burners with a lit match. I would tie a rope around my waste and instruct my daughter to tug with otherworldly strength the minute I was engulfed in flames. “Stop, drop and roll,” she would yell.
Cooking on it was like standing next to a shuttle booster rocket. Ferocious heat and flames poured out. Massive flare-ups — like solar eruptions — leaped from the grill in a terrifying acrobatic display. They always occurred just as I was turning over a bun. In an instant, the bread was incinerated and my fingernails were crinkled at the tips.
I could never trust the thermometer. It would only show 150 degrees while the stainless steel cover started to buckle and melt under the intense heat.
One day while inspecting it, a giant piece of a burner came loose. “This only controls the direction and evenness of the highly flammable and deadly gas coming out,” I reassured myself. “Couldn’t be too important.” I lodged the piece back in and upped my life insurance.
Somehow I never died cooking on that grill. But I knew its time had come. Its days (or mine!) were numbered. One of us was about to go.
I held out as long as I could, not wanting to give up. Not wanting to part with an old friend. I really have no explanation for why we do it. Men build these bonds with grilling instruments. Actually, we build bonds with anything shiny, rusty or dangerous. Nobody knows why. But it makes us say things like: “This grill is part of me. It has peered into my soul. No, really it has … once I actually inhaled a flare-up!”
I finally did it, though. I cashed in a gift certificate and ordered a new grill. It’s silver and shiny. The grates are smooth, unlike the rocky crust of over-cooked chicken bits and scorched carbon that covered the old one. This one has specially angled “Flavorizer bars” giving my food “an irresistible barbecued flavor.” My old grill made food taste like carcinogens and death.
I’m doing what I’ve never done before — following directions. Pre-heating. Timing my flips. Not checking doneness every 7 seconds. Leaving the lid down. Exhibiting something called “grill patience.” It’s a very Zen-like experience. I meditate between flips and ponder the greater meaning of the universe.
For that I’m rewarded. “These steaks look like they should be in a magazine!” my wife remarked at the perfect grill marks.
“I know,” I said. “What am I doing wrong?!? I can actually taste steak!”
And all the hair on my arms? It’s still there. I look like a baboon now!
There is nothing dangerous about the experience. It’s tame, incident-free and kind of boring. Grilling is no longer an extreme sport. A chance to test my mettle and see what I’m made of. By golly, it’s just about cooking meat! Where’s the fun in that?
So, goodbye Grillasaurus. Thanks to the third degree burns, you will never be forgotten.